the world he longed for was to hear once again the whispering of
the wind in the branches of the lime trees at Knightsholm.

Sometimes, on a summer's day, a steamer would pass the islet; then
he heard the plashing of the waves, or, perhaps, snatches of music;
and he saw bright faces which grew dark as soon as their eyes fell
on the grey stone men on the mountain.

And then he cursed heaven and earth, his fate and the cruelty of men.
He cursed, year in, year out. And he and his companions tormented
and cursed each other day and night; for crime isolates, but
misfortune draws men together.

In the beginning his fate was unnecessarily cruel, for the keepers
ill-treated the prisoners, mercilessly and at their pleasure.

But one day there was a change; the food was better, the treatment
was less harsh, and every prisoner was given a cell of his own to
sleep in. The king himself had loosened the chains of the prisoners
a little; but since hopelessness had petrified the hearts of these
unfortunate men, they were unable to feel anything like gratitude,
and so they continued to curse; and now they came to the conclusion
that it was more pleasant to sleep together in one room, for then
they could talk all night. And they continued to complain of the
food, the clothes, and the treatment, just as before.

One fine day all the bells of the town were ringing, and those of
Knightsholm rang louder than any of the others. King Oscar was
dead, and the prisoners had a holiday. Since they could talk to
one another now, they talked of murdering the guards and escaping